Sarn's Story

Have a desire to start a new interactive story. I intend for this to be a bit more serious than say the NeS or the Captain Cadpill adventures, but I'd still like for it to be dialogue driven (hence the script format). Humor is of course allowed, but it should be in the appropriate tone and vein of the story. Anyone is welcome to post to the story, but I should tell you all now, that I am posting this with the hopes of reawakening my dream of being a published writer, and I intend and reserve the right to use anything you post to adapt into a potential novel. (On that note, if I don't like the direction it's going, I may jump in with a NSP (non-story-post) to direct a bit, but I intend to keep that to a minimum as I don't want to miss out on any good oppurtunities because I'm taking too tight a grip on this.

If things progress how I'd like, I will also at some point begin thinking of a title, and I will be open to suggestion.

Now without further adu, the story:

**********************

Two men sit in a stuffy room with no windows. By their appearance, they've had a longer day than they'd have liked, white button-up shirts not quite wrinkled, but definitely not showing the stiffness of a fresh starch, ties loosened around unbuttoned collars. A ceiling fan spins lazily over their heads, while they lounge; not sitting straight, but not quite slouching at a small round table. One man appears tall and noticeably thin, the pale skin of his face punctuated by half a day's growth of stubble and dark circles under his eyes. In his left hand, he holds an unlit cigarette, while the fingers of his right hand drum nervously on the table. His dark eyes are focused at the center of the table, where 3 flat screens face outward in a triangular pattern, held in place by the stands built into the table. They were designed so that the screens would be visible to the full compliment of six or seven individuals who would fit comfortably around the table, though now the two men are the table's only occupants, and they are sitting closely enough that two of the three screens are not needed and so remain dark.
The tall man's companion is unlike him in every way, except for the dull, exhausted look in his eyes, which are pale blue, so light in color that they appear gray. His hair is blond, cropped close, and while he wouldn't likely be called short, he appears to be of below average height and above average weight, the buttons of his shirt stretched just a little too tight around the mid-section. He is also showing stubble at his cheeks, contrasting the tall man's salt and pepper shadow with the beginnings of a beard that promises to curl and glints copper when the light hits it at the right angle. He also watches the one lit screen, though with less intensity than his dark companion.

Blonde man: I called you in here because we're growing tired of waiting. We're going to awaken him.

Tall dark man: And how do you plan to do that, exactly?

Blonde man: You've seen the files from the others. Many of them discovered their gifts when circumstances placed them in... shall we say abnormally dangerous situations.

The dark man tries unsuccessfully to hide his surprise, his shoulders stiffening and his eyebrows rising slightly. He didn't get where he was today by wearing his thoughts on his sleeve, but what his companion is talking about is a huge risk; one he hadn't expected the organization to take.

Tall dark man: James, why would we take such a risk? After all the time and resources we've devoted, are we willing to throw it all away now?

Blonde man: It would seem, Raymond, that we have less time than we originally anticipated. If we don't move now, we risk everything. The boy must awaken, and he must awaken now. The wheels are already in motion. I brought you in here because if he survives, you are being assigned as his Director.

Raymond turned his head in James' direction, his face momentarily betraying his shock.

Raymond: If he survives?

James: We're not pretending here. In order for the sensation of danger to be perfect, it must not be an illusion. Now pay attention. It will begin in a few minutes and there are already doubts about your ability to live up to our expectations. I don't want you to miss anything you might be able to use.

Last edited by Sarn_Cadrill; 06-02-2012 at 08:02 AM.

If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.

Lassev: I guess there was something captivating in savagery, because I liked it.

For the second time this day, the hair prickles on the back of Nolanís neck. Though he has tried to ignore it, he has been unable lately to shake the feeling that someone or something has been watching him. His blanket falls away as he raises himself up on one shoulder and listens. As usual, he can hear voices coming through the vent from the living room below. His parents and the damn television. Of course, he thinks. They never worry about anyone but themselves.

As he continues to listen to the sounds of the television, his sense of foreboding increases. What are they watching? Obviously a drama. He canít hear the words, but thereís definitely a heated argument going on. The two male voices rise in volume until Nolan can almost make out the words. And then suddenly, they stop. They must have turned the television off. Now, in a few seconds, heíll hear them coming up the stairs. They never bother to try and move quietly around the house, even at night. He waits, listening. But there is nothing. And in that silence, it hits him; the reason he felt so uneasy. One of those voices sounded a good deal like his father.

Suddenly, thereís a loud crash. He hears a woman scream from the living room. Mom! Nolan flings the blankets off, lunging from his bed towards the door. Heís out the door and headed down the hall for the stairs, when he hears it. Itís a sound that heís never heard before, except in the movies and on television, and while itís surprisingly loud, itís unmistakable, and it brings Nolan to an unceremonious stop. Gunshots. Two of them, in rapid succession. Another scream from his mother is abruptly cut off by the sound of another round being fired. Nolan cries out in shock. Below, he hears a manís voice.

Man 1: (from downstairs) Upstairs. It must be the kid.

Man 2: (from downstairs) So letís go. What are we waiting down here for?

Nolan takes a step back. He hears footsteps on the stairs. Not rushed, but steady. Maybe I can get out the window, he thinks.

He turns around and runs back into his bedroom. Heís just undoing the latch on the window, when a shadow falls over the light from the hallway and thereís a voice behind him.

Man 1: Alright kid. Get back from that window. Letís talk.

Talking is the last thing on Nolanís mind. He works the latch and begins to slide the window open. A gunshot goes off behind him, and he freezes, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting to die.

Nothing.

Man 1: That was a warning shot, kid. I mean business. Shut the window and turn around.

Nolan slowly slides the window closed, takes a breath, and turns. Across the room from him, still in the doorway, is a tall, thick man dressed in black. He is wearing a black mask of some kind, and is pointing a handgun at Nolan, one handed. His other hand, gloved in black leather, rests calmly at his side. Keeping the weapon trained on Nolan, he steps inside, making room for his seemingly identical companion.

Man 1: I bet youíre thinking the police are going to show up any minute, all this ruckus weíre making, huh?

Nolan says nothing. The thoughtís crossed his mind.

Man 1: Donít you worry. Weíve already taken care of that. We wonít be bothered.

Nolan: What do you want?

Man 1: To kill you, obviously. Weíre just curious as to why.

Nolan: What do you mean?

Man 1: Jimmy and me, weíre what you might call hit men. Weíre very good at what we do. We get business from all sorts of people, but we aint never had a job like this before. ĎKill the kid, the parents if you have to. Make it look like a break in.í You know, smash **** up. Take some jewels or valuables, then disappear. We was showed a picture of you, couldnít be more than a week old. Thatís when we start wondering. See, we aint cheap, Jimmy and me. So whoís gonna pay all that money to take out a seventeen year old kid. And why? Tried to ask your dad what was so special Ďbout you. Know what he said?

Nolan stares at the man, blankly. He doesnít seem to mind the lack of a response.

Man 1: Nothing. Jimmy thought that was funny. Here the manís got a gun to his head, and he canít think nothing special about his only son. Not a single god damn thing. Donít that make you feel loved, kid?

Nolan: Heís right. There isnít anything special about me. Iím just a normal kid. No reason for you to be here.

Jimmy: That isnít true. There is one thing about you that is special.

Jimmy raises his gun, level with Nolanís face.

Jimmy: The bounty.

Jimmy squeezes the trigger.

If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.

Lassev: I guess there was something captivating in savagery, because I liked it.

James scratches the side of his nose thoughtfully. The two of them had been watching the events in Nolanís house unfold. They had seen the thug raise the gun, and heard it go off. And then nothing. Nolan, who had been standing there a moment before, on the right side of the screen near the window, had just vanished.

James: (muttering to himself) This does complicate things. What is it? Teleportation? Super speed? Invisibility? This could make him very difficult to track.

Raymond: Letís pull up the other camera angles. Maybe we can get a better idea.

********

Nolan closes his eyes in fear. Itís a long blink, just enough for his brain to register the darkness. When he opens them, he is amazed at what he sees. Time seems to have slowed down. He sees the muzzle flash of the pistol, the slide just beginning to be forced back. As the explosion flares out from the barrel, he observes the bullet, slowly exiting the barrel like a seedling sprouting from the dirt displayed on motion capture film. Empty brass appears from the left side of the gun. He watches as, in slow motion, the cartridge is ejected from the gun, beginning to tumble through the air. The round is still moving slowly towards his face. He steps out of the way, away from the window, easily avoiding the approaching bullet, which lazily spins in the air as it continues past him in a seemingly straight path.

What the hell is happening? Some kind of near death experience? Nolan continues to watch the empty brass, smoke curling up from it, as it sluggishly twirls up and away from the gun. Nolan looks up at the gunman and sees his eyes beginning to widen in surprise.

Time for me to be going, Nolan thinks. He ducks through the doorway, brushing past the other hit man on his way out, and walks quickly down the hall toward the stairs. As he nears the stairs he suddenly remembers what awaits him below. Maybe he should go out the window. He turns back towards the door to his room, in time to see the hit man in the doorway just beginning to turn at the torso, weight shifting to one foot. They know somethingís up. Nolan takes a deep breath, and trudges down the stairs.

The stairs open out into the living room. Nolan tells himself not to look, but his eyes travel to where he knows his parents will be. His father lays face down in the carpet, a red stain radiating out from his head. A chair from the kitchen table is lying on its side near his feet, and around the chair are several frayed bits of synthetic black cord. A quick glance identifies it as 550 lb parachute cord.

His mother, at first glance, appears to have fallen asleep in another kitchen chair, about 2 or 3 feet from where his fatherís head now rests. She appears relaxed and peaceful. Only a closer inspection would reveal the black cord binding her hands to the arms rests, and her feet to the legs of the chair, or the pool of blood under the chair, or the bullet hole in her forehead, centered between and just above her eyes, or the exit wound on the back of her head, marring her blonde hair, and just beginning to form a crimson bead of blood, which, as he watches, breaks free and begins to fall, barely moving in the slow motion, towards the stained carpet.

Bile rises in Nolanís throat and he turns to the side just as vomit rushes violently from his mouth. It moves at a perfectly natural speed as it escapes his throat and pushes its way from his mouth, but once out in the air, it seems to hang there, as if heís vomited into zero gravity. He recoils, runs to the front door, his stomach threatening to expel the remainder of his dinner. Heís out the door and running down the center of the street. He doesnít know where heís going and he doesnít care. He only notices he is wearing nothing but boxer shorts when he begins to feel pain in his soles and looks down to see his bare feet slapping against the pavement. He ignores the pain and keeps running.

As he reaches the end of his block, he sees a car, which appears to be parked in the intersection of the busier cross street. His first thought is that the car must be back up for the two hit men, waiting for them to return. His pace slows, as he considers getting off the road to try and hide. Then he notices the statue of a man in the driverís seat, eyes and face forward, hands gripping the steering wheel. He sees that the headlights are on, and if he concentrates, he can just make out the rotation of the wheels. Timeís still slowed.

The car is a large, luxury sedan, maybe a BMW or an Audi, but Nolan isnít bothered enough to care. A bold plan forms in his mind. He runs right up to the car, opens the back door on the passenger side. Heís not that big, he can easily curl up in the foot space behind the front passenger seat. He does so, his head resting against the door, forehead just about level with the cushion of the rear seat, and his knees tucked up near his chin. He cries.

Last edited by Sarn_Cadrill; 06-06-2012 at 09:02 AM.

If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.

Lassev: I guess there was something captivating in savagery, because I liked it.